Why do you run away
from the primordial fear?
Of tight emptiness?
A shapeless entity of drifting psyche?
This was your home
where carcasses of cliches
hang from the doors of wisdom.
Unplanted seeds
of vacant connotations.

Inch by inch you were eating
your prophetic pauses
salt had become tasteless.
Counting the kisses of
moths on the screen
a candle burned furiously.
I never picked the colors of cloud, of rain, of blood.

What becomes of happening,
of being, of reaching?
The stones of truth are very sharp.
The roads were conspiring
insects collecting, under the surface.
Circling winds had
a heavy stench of death
but words were very intelligent.

Satish Verma